


A Good Deed

by ShadyShadowDemon



Series: Vent fics revolving around Darkiplier [1]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: Depression, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadyShadowDemon/pseuds/ShadyShadowDemon
Summary: Dark's one and only good deed is to scar his body. After all, someone so hideous on the inside doesn't deserve so beautiful on the out....right?





	A Good Deed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My crippling mental issues](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+crippling+mental+issues).



> Warning: in case you didn't see, this is self harm and is possibly triggering.   
> And apology in advance for errors, i didn't feel like double checking.

Dark knew he shouldn’t.

But but but.

Oh boy was he going to. He wanted to. He needed to. He was going to.

Oh yes. He could imagine it, could almost feel it. He wanted to feel it.

He wanted to feel it because he felt too much.

Oh, how far he’s fallen, how dreadful he is. What a failure, what a monster.

Yes, he was all that.

But how nice it would be.

But how he knew he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want to.

But he did. So he did.

He slid that sharp blade along his arm, so easily slicing through skin, so easily. And he exhaled, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Good god it was like a drug. He knew why. He knew it was the endorphins that were sent to his brain in response to the pain that made it so addictive.

He was so strong, so strong minded. He should be able to resist the want.

But he felt himself relaxing. He slid the blade once more across the inside of his forearm. He watched the blood rise to the surface and slowly trail down his arm. He could smell it in the air. The scent of blood always got his heart pumping. More endorphins there.

Pain activated his fight or flight reflexes, as it did for everyone. And it was just...god it was exhilarating. He needed this, he wanted this.

He deserved this.

Someone so imperfect on the inside like himself shouldn’t be allowed to be so beautiful on the outside. It wasn’t fair. He was a perfect monster. So scarring up his body…it was service, a good deed. The only good deed he was capable of. Right? This was…this was good. This was better for everyone…wasn’t it?

He could feel the doubt and common sense trying to creep into his mind. He wouldn’t allow it. Not now.

So he made another cut. It went deeper and it stung more and he loved it. He was so…so happy to hurt himself like this. It was the only time he felt happiness really. Even if it was only the artificial stimulation of endorphins in his brain.

He kept making more cuts, deeper cuts. The blood slide down his skin, coating it, and dripped onto the carpet of his bedroom. There were other dark but faded stains on the carpet floor. Many times, he got carried away and afterwards was so drained from it that he couldn’t clean up the blood. And it was too much for him to accomplished the next day.

That seems to be the direction he’s quickly heading now. It was…obsessive, the way he could repetitively mar his skin. Over and over and over he cut. Like a broken record.

Well he was definitely broken. He kept reminding himself it was service whenever logic tried to sneak attack him.

Soon enough, he didn’t have to tell himself anything. He couldn’t think of anything except the blood spilling down his arm, the throbbing ache of his raw skin and the shooting pains it caused when he continued to cut. It was a torturous bliss.

By the time he stopped, it had been such a long time…he dropped the knife on the floor. His shirt was stained with blood and it was…it was all over the place.

He felt whoozy, he had realized what he’d done to himself as he always did. He didn’t even have the strength to pull himself up into his bed. Oh well, he wouldn’t want to bloody his sheets anyhow. He just laid there on the carpet floor in a pool of his own life liquid. The smell just engulfed him. He was shaky and unsteady now. The pain was starting to get to him in a normal way.

The last thing he saw before he passed out was his horrifyingly mutilated flesh. Raw, red, ruined. That’s all his flesh was, and that’s all he was.


End file.
